


Sinful in Secret

by NativeHueOfResolution



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NativeHueOfResolution/pseuds/NativeHueOfResolution
Summary: AU: In which John Watson becomes a Catholic priest shortly after returning from Afghanistan. Sherlock Holmes, who is still looking for a flatmate, first lays eyes on him when forced to attend service on a Sunday with his father.//"Father, forgive me," He gasped again, "Christ, that's good. Don't stop."//
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jimmikins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimmikins/gifts).



> Written alongside @Jimmikins on AO3.  
> 

"Why don't you come with me?"

Mr. Holmes offered his youngest son a kind smile as he sat back on his chair, rather stuffed after what had now become the mandatory family dinner the 15th of every month. Him and his wife never saw enough of their sons, not with how occupied they were with their respective careers. So, after a long discussion the previous year following Sherlock's sixth failed overdose attempt, the four of them decided to meet at least once a month, at their family home.

Mrs. Holmes tried to stifle her chuckle as she brought her mug of tea to her lips, and Sherlock grimaced.

"What? To church?"

It was a well known fact that Sherlock Holmes had a crippling addiction to opioids woven into his career as a detective. After dropping out of university and the Royal Ballet, the only thing his habit didn't seem to wreck was how innately good he was at solving other people's problems. He'd tried it all, he'd toured all rehabilitation facilities on the British Isles, and yet, he couldn't shake it off. Not that he cared that much, to be frank.

"Yes. What's the harm in it? Worst that could happen is that you hate it, and then I won't suggest it again. I believe you could benefit from listening to Father Watson's sermons, he does have a way with words. I reckon even a non-believer could take something away from them." Mr. Holmes nodded invitingly. "I'd love for you to come, and show you around my church. Would you do me that favour?" The man had recently been diagnosed with the early stages of an autoimmune disorder, and as fervently as Sherlock wanted to fight it, it influenced how much importance he gave to his father's words.

At that, Mrs. Holmes let out a quiet giggle.

"Oh, love, don't look at me like that. You know I love going to church with you, I know you enjoy it thoroughly. But Sherlock? In a church? Listening?" Another bout of laughter. "Come on."

Sherlock scowled. Mycroft shook his head.

"If anything, I think it could be a last resort. See if it finally helps him kick that disgusting habit of his. I don't think we'll see the day Sherlock Holmes bows to anything or anyone other than his own reflection staring back on the mirror, but I suppose nothing's impossible. Maybe confessing could give him some semblance of humility."

The older brother sneered, and Sherlock's scowl deepened.

"Oh, confessing is certainly such a wonderful event, son. It's helped me before. You know, putting your problems on God's lap and asking for guidance. It's very freeing in many ways. It could help you, ease your worries."  
  
Mr. Holmes was speaking from a sincere need to help, and both Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft were ready to jump on that bandwagon. Even if neither of them were as faithful as Mr. Holmes, the idea was good. They'd tried it all at this point.

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Sod the lot of you. Dad, if you're truly asking, then I suppose I could do that for you. Consider it your birthday present this year. I know it's not going to work, and I'll hate every second of it, but if you're really that inclined..."

"I am. Thank you, Sherlock. You'll have fun, son, I promise."

\--

Sherlock tried eight different excuses that following Saturday, but his father read through every last one of them.

_See you tomorrow at Westminster Cathedral, at 8:00 AM sharp._

Sherlock groaned at the text and left his phone on his nightstand, plopping face down onto his bed. Fuck London for being boring enough to not have any cases of significance on a weekend.

\--

This was so stupid, so out of character. He felt completely out of his depth. Sherlock had half a heart to just piss off, when his father shushed him. In protest, he didn't rise to his feet with the rest of the attendants as Father Watson walked in, boasting a charming smile. The look on Sherlock's face changed entirely the second his eyes landed on the man's face. He was endlessly curious now. He straightened his back and did his best to keep up with everyone else for the next two hours and a half, breaking protocol only when the "wish your neighbours blessings" bit came on. His eyes were glued on John Watson the entire time, except whenever the man would look his way. Then he would blush like an idiot and avert his gaze. He quietly asked his father for the priest's name again during one of his sermons, and then quickly fished out his phone to do a background check on the man.

Feigning repentance and enlightenment, the detective told his father he'd stay to confess. The older Holmes seemed ecstatic, and he gave his son a warm hug before leaving him be. Sherlock waited until the last of the faithful had left the confessional, into which he'd seen Father Watson walk. He cleared his throat, swiftly fixed his hair, and stepped into the opposite chamber to partake in the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

\--

After entering the confessional, and confirming Father John Watson was sitting at his side separated by a thin wooden panel, Sherlock found his throat had gone dry. The silence was deafening, the church was completely empty that evening.

"I... uhm. How is this done, exactly? What's the point of it? How is it going to make me feel better?"

This wasn't the first time that John had encountered someone so nervous. Confession is typically a nerve-wracking experience, even for the most devout of faith who do it regularly. So, John knew exactly the words the shaken man on the other side of the grid would likely want to hear.

Things like that- situations like this one- are what drew him to the priesthood. It wasn't necessarily a calling from God, although he was raised Catholic. It was a purpose. For him to have a purpose again after the war. A way to help people, to be needed. And, he was faithful to God, even if it wasn't the original purpose.  
He cast a quick glance at the man beside him. He was visibly nervous.

"Listen, my son. I can hear the anguish in your voice. Relax. There isn't any judgement here." He promised, his tone gentle and soothing. "You're here because something is weighing on your heart. Many people find confessing it up to God eases their burden. What urged you to come here today?"

Sherlock listened carefully, his brows furrowed. God, he didn't have anything weighing on his heart. He wasn't feeling anguish. He just liked the occasional fag, and heroin helped heighten his already razor sharp senses. Did he have to apologise for that? He bit back as much of the snarky retorts queuing up at his tongue as could before speaking. He took a deep breath, rubbing a side of his face. He'd been loosely raised Catholic himself, his father being the main believer in his family, but at this point in his life, he was agnostic at best.

"I am fairly relaxed. I suppose I'm here because I'm invariably addicted to opioids, have been since I was a teenager. My family hates it, naturally. Not that you'd care to believe me, but it's been an asset in my life."

Being casual, or what people normally conceived as being casual usually translated into rudeness when it left the detective's mouth. Sherlock didn't wish to cross any lines, lest he didn't impress the priest. Suddenly, this whole plan seemed beyond stupid - What was he hoping to accomplish, anyway, by entering the confessional with Father Watson?

"I'm here, mainly, to appease my dad. I apologise, father, I'll waste some of your time. I don't think I'm coming back, I don't necessarily understand the benefits of this. I came to your service this morning, and let me tell you, I enjoyed the view more than I enjoyed your words."

In turn, John was a bit flushed by that last comment, but wasn't easily perturbed by much. Plenty of sinners find ways to defend their habits because they're scared of giving them up. They need them, it gives them purpose, they can't let them go. It was nothing new. It was a bit different today- he didn't usually have such a handsome man sitting next to him- but he believed in his training as a priest. John knew he shouldn't notice the body of a church member, regardless, he acknowledged he was still a man, and God created men with certain urges.

"It's no waste, so don't worry about that. I believe that you believe it's an asset to you. I take it that you enjoyed my sermon this morning, even if it were not for the reasons I intended, but perhaps, even so, you may eventually gain something from it. If you enjoy it, why not come again?" He asked sincerely. He found many people joined his flock 'incidentally', just wandering in for a sermon here or there, and he wondered if this young man would benefit from the routine of it.

"Mh, I could make a habit of watching you read out loud once a week. It's easier on the eyes than doss houses and the underside of bridges." The younger replied after a quiet scoff.

"Do you typically do things only motivated by the will of your father?"

Sherlock sat back, putting a hand through his curls. He was tempted to just get up and leave. What was he doing? Even if the priest wasn't talking down to him, it'd been years since he felt this patronised.

He scowled. "No. I haven't ever paid much mind to my father. He is the dimmest one in the family, after all, so it's not like I'd trust his judgement for much. The poor man has fallen with an illness, early stages, but I suppose that's played into how much attention I pay to him. It's a one off, father. Don't get it wrong."

He paused.

"I've looked you up. A veteran. I hope I'm not being too crude, but what made you join priesthood? I don't think I've ever seen a man like you just giving up on life's earthly pleasures. Do you like being called 'father', father? Is that it?"

John couldn't help a scoff escaping, but he cleared his throat and sat up a bit. Jeez, what a snippy kid.

"Every man has his own personal calling to the priesthood. It's not something we typically share with outsiders. Perhaps, to find that out, you may just have to join my flock." He finished with a warm smile, and he did mean it genuinely. This young man seemed bright, at least, if a bit rude, which a bit of learning and community may wring out of him. "Being called father simply comes with the territory. Does it bother you that I called you my son? We can use different terms if you like, but we were talking about your drug use. You seem to put a lot of importance on intellect, and yet choose to use substances that are detrimental to brain function. Maybe that's the real reason you're here."

Sherlock rested his elbow on the small shelf at his side, and his face on his hand. "Flock. Yes, that is indeed a fitting name for you lot." He bit down on his tongue the second he'd said that. Lestrade had really whipped some semblance of common decency into him, he was getting better and better at identifying when he was being unnecessarily rude. "Sorry."

John nodded forgivingly at the apology.

Sherlock remained quiet for a little after thinking on the priest's last words. "I was about to graduate from Oxford University with a degree in Forensic Chemistry and a doctorate in Biochemistry. I believe I understand the drug fairly well, father. My brain function has been nothing if not heightened by my continued drug abuse." Fat talk for a man that couldn't escape his addiction. "I am the world's only Consulting Detective. I invented the position. I work with those helpless bastards at NSY. Well, work is a bit of a reach, I'm not paid. Ad Honorem. Purely for the thrill of it. And heroin helps with harder cases. Also, going back to your other question, the fact that you call me son barely even registered. However, calling you father, certainly has an effect on me, and not the one, I'm sure, you were going for."

John watched him thoughtfully while he spoke, noticing all the small shifts in his body language, opening up a bit, relaxing a bit. Even then, he felt very examined, very watched.

"That's impressive- your degrees, your job, your aspirations. You sound very bright to me, if that means anything to you." He chuckled. "I consider I'm an educated man myself- even so, we're all students under God- So, I can appreciate your background. Here's my theory. I think you don't like having to depend on anybody, or anything, including chemical stimulants or depressants. That's why you're here, because you are quite burdened by them. You just stuck around because of the handsome priest, eh? How'd I do?"

One's not really meant to make light in the confessional- it's a somber event, normally- but he found he couldn't help himself. He actually missed banter more than he realized, and this young man seemed to be a more than willing participant. He decided, for now, not to address his last comment.

Sherlock smirked a bit to himself, staring down at the floor. This man was charming, and he didn't think he'd ever used that adjective to define anyone. He also didn't think he'd ever met anyone actually charming until he'd laid eyes on John Watson. Something about his voice, the way he took most of Sherlock's hard-hitting rhetorics and turned them into conversation effortlessly, he even seemed to laugh at what the young detective considered jokes. He shook his head, clearing his throat. This was stupid. It was one thing to be attracted to the man, and a very different thing to be influenced by him. He almost made him want to behave, for goodness's sake.

"Yeah. Well, I dropped out before I did, so I don't have any titles other than the ones I've given myself." Blood rushed to his cheeks as he thought back to answer the priest's deductions. "You're easy to talk to. That's a very mediocre summary, but I suppose you're mostly right. I still stand with my thoughts on heroin, I'm not going to quit it. The setbacks are so small compared to the benefits. I know what I'm doing. But I did stick around for the handsome priest."

It was John's turn to flush again. He couldn't help but enjoy the effect he was having on the young man, it was a thrill he hadn't felt in years. This admittedly flirtatious exchange was activating a part of his mind that had grown old and dusty. It was engaging, exciting.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. You're an interesting one to talk to, as well," He told him earnestly, "If you insist on your habits, there's not much this old priest can do to stop you. I can tell you it's against God's will, which is true, but you don't care about that. I can tell you it's a poor decision, which you'd probably care more to hear."

Sherlock leaned closer to the small window in the panel obscured by a delicate wooden grid, not really hearing the priest's following words after he noticed his blush. "Very handsome, indeed. I also have seventeen year's experience as a classical dancer in my CV, father, make with that information what you will."

When the younger leaned into the panel, John's first urge was to pull back. He didn't; his urges were overridden with curiosity, and he leaned in closer as well, close enough to ring sinful alarm bells in his head and make the his white collar feel extra-tight around his neck. He automatically lowered his voice as he said,

"I'll be sure to keep it in mind."

Sherlock felt his breath hitch the slightest bit at that. He gulped, pulling back and taking a quiet breath of air. His ears and neck were burning up. He was convinced he was a hard-to-please lover, being this flustered by a stranger was absolutely ridiculous.

"It's growing on me, let me tell you. This dynamic. Far more exciting than I ever anticipated. One of the few times my calculations were wrong, and I'm rather pleased about it." He said softly, his voice growing huskier.

Another pause, and the abrassive silence around them wasted no time in enrobing them again, if only briefly.

"I know many things in this church are done kneeling, father. I'd urge you to let me know if I can be of any assistance to you while on my knees." He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and his coat was suddenly too heavy. "Otherwise, I thank you for your time. This was good." He undid his scarf and sat back in his chair. God, he felt like a teenager.

John nodded, pulling away from the divider as well. His face was boiling hot, and while he probably already had, he didn't want the young man to notice. He felt a pang of shame- to act so sinfully in the confessional, especially with a man... But it was tremendously exciting, and his life had a serious lack of that, so he decided he was willing to test those waters. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yes, I'll keep that in mind if I need any help with....praying." His voice ever so slightly cracked on the last word, and he cleared his throat again. He was extremely grateful to be wearing his robes at a time like this.

"I think that's enough for today. I expect to see you at my next sermon. I think there's some more... spiritual guidance, you could benefit from. You already know my name since you managed to search me up. May I ask yours, or would you rather me continue to simply know you as 'my son'?"

Sherlock tugged at the collar of his shirt, smirking to himself. This had to be the most purely erotic thing he'd been a part of in years. And with a priest, no less. Mrs. Hudson would never believe him.

"Certainly, father. I will most likely not care about what you're saying, but your face will definitely brighten up my day." He cleared his throat. "I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He replied, even more interested in this man now that he knew he was a complete stranger to him. He'd become a moderate deal in London as a soloist for the Royal Ballet, then managed to stay in the limelight with his work alongside the Scotland Yard. It was refreshing to find someone that didn't know who he was. His fitted trousers weren't being too kind to his current state, so he uncomfortably adjusted them before getting up. His long coat helped achieve a bit of discretion, thankfully.

Sherlock pocketed his scarf, and drew the curtain of his side of the confessional before stepping out. He stood in front of the door leading to the Father's chamber.

He took a deep breath, opening it, and slowly kneeling in front of the man. He sat on his heels as he looked up at John. His cheeks burnt bright pink.

"I wanted to see you up-close."

John was fully expecting his last little fluster to be the end of their interaction. Apparently, he was wrong.

He was staring down at this man- this incredibly handsome man- who he couldn't get a very good look at before. His skin was delicate, pale; his curls were silken and framed his face like a cherub one would see in tapestries. The fact that he was prostrated in front of him didn't even register for a moment, he was too distracted by taking in his looks. He had a moment of gripping panic until he remembered that he took on this confessional unusually late, so they were likely the only ones left at the church for the day. 

Members of his church had knelt before him in several occasions- usually in a desperate act, pleading for forgiveness.

This man wanted not forgiveness.

All he could think to do was to reach down and cup his face with his hands, staring straight down into bright, analytical eyes. His body pleaded with him to do otherwise.

"Is the view satisfying, Mr. Holmes?" He asked in a low, daring whisper, feeling an incredible sense of power, having a man like that kneel at his feet.

Sherlock looked up at what he knew was the most handsome man he'd ever laid eyes on. Cobalt eyes, piercing, but kind. His skin was that of a man who had been under the sun, in all kinds of climates. Blond hair, interrupted by silvery strands.

His mouth had gone fully dry. The more he looked at him, the more his surroundings dissolved. 

He felt strong, calloused hands on his cheeks, and dark eyes on his. His own mouth parted slightly, and his eyelids were heavy. He let out a soft breath, quite possibly the last bit of air left in his lungs. 

"You tell me." He whispered, reaching one of his hands down to undo the last few buttons of his coat. The strain in the crotch of his trousers was evident, and getting uncomfortable. He leaned into the priest's left hand, never breaking eye contact as he delicately tipped and tilted his face to leave the man's thumb on his bottom lip. He let his tongue graze the tip of it, then closed his lips to suck on it.

John took a deep breath and let his head fall back for a moment, his eyes fluttering to a close as he felt his last few threads of resistance break away, his mind overcome with sinful thoughts. His priesthood was the pride of his life and his purpose, but he could also see a lot of purpose in this man's lips alone. It felt as though he'd choreographed every movement to undo him, that he'd come here with the plan to seduce him, and yet, his intentions didn't seem malicious or calculated.   
Sherlock gulped, letting a pitiful moan die in his mouth. His body was tingling all over. This man had an effect on him he didn't think he'd ever experienced. The sight of his head dropping made him quiver. He wanted to kiss that neck, bite at it. 

"Am I a satisfying view, father?" He purred. 

John's chest felt warm, and the young man's face felt flushed and hot against his fingers, his mouth even more so. His gaze returned to this temptation. His left hand remained on his cheek, moving his wet thumb back and forth over his lower lip, feeling the soft, supple texture. His right hand slid back, to cup around the nape of his neck and gently tug him forward, and caress the tendrils of curls there. "God forgive me if I submit to the temptations of the flesh," he whispered, mostly to himself. 

The detective gasped as he was tugged forward, obliging.

To Sherlock, John said, 

"Satisfying isn't high enough praise for someone like you. Will you kiss me?" He swallowed, his stomach dropping as soon as the words left his lips. It was hard to hear himself say something so foreign. But he wanted it. And he wanted to ask. He believed himself to be an honest man.

The younger kept his eyes fixed on John's, completely surrendered at this man's feet. He didn't need any other instruction after that. He propped himself up on his knees, finding John's lips. He kept their mouths a hair away, sharing quiet breath with the man. 

"You can confess yourself later, I'm told it helps." 

One of his delicate hands trailed up to cup the back of John's neck, and he softly leaned in for the kiss. It was slow; deep, intentional. Hungry. He kissed harder. His other hand rested on the priest's chest, and he grabbed at the man's robes, anchoring himself.

John sucked in a breath. It felt like something that had been unknowingly missing clicked into place. As if all paths diverged to right now, with Sherlock Holmes at his feet, touching him, teasing him. The clergy left his mind, as did medical school and the war, and it was just this warm mouth, these soft curls, this stranger kissing him in one of the holiest places in his church. His fingers worked their way into his hair, pulling his head back so he could get at this chin and his jaw, with quick, hungry kisses. On cue, Sherlock managed to suck in some air, holding the back of John's head.

John's other hand took the lithe, slender one on his chest and pushed it south, making his intentions about as clear as he could. 

"Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to show me that assistance you promised earlier?" He murmured, right up against his ear.

The detective gave himself into this man's desires, his strong hand guiding his own to where he'd been wanting to put it since this all began. He tilted his head down, grabbing John's chin with his free hand as he began to massage the man through his robes first; teasing him. He wanted to see every twitch his face made.  
"Eager, father? That's good to know." He growled, pecking at the corners of John's mouth.  
His hand quickly snaked under the man's robes eventually, and he found his belt. He had had his fair share of experience, so he effortlessly undid the man's trousers while his other hand carded through his hair, pressing their foreheads together. He couldn't explain it, but he felt like he'd known this man his entire life. He adjusted himself, diving under the fabric to kiss and nuzzle at the man's lower stomach. Both his hands on the waistband of his pants, he gently urged him to pick up his hips so he could bring his clothes down a bit. He let out a quiet, gasping moan at the feeling of it against his face. 

"My... I guessed right based on how you walk." He growled, taking the head of John's shaft between his lips and sucking on it while his hand slowly pumped up and down.

John's mind was spinning at how quickly this encounter had become intimate, and then sexual, but he couldn't stop now. He was flooded with adrenaline and excitement, along with the taboo nature of being pleasured in his robes, in a confessional, of all things. Fantasies he hadn't allowed himself to have, moments of isolation in the shower he shied away from. It was now he saw some of Sherlock's experience, too. 

The kisses and nuzzles had made his chest warm, but being in his mouth made his body relax against the seat and his toes curl inside his shoes. He tilted his head back, lids fluttering again, taking in the pleasure before combing his fingers again through Sherlock's curls, taking hold and guiding his head, increasing his tempo. His knees spread wider so he could nestle in comfortably between them while he worked. One of his hands slid down the back of Sherlock's shirt, just feeling, lightly scraping his nails against his shoulder blade. He couldn't help himself. 

"Father, forgive me," He gasped again, "Christ, that's good. Don't stop."

Sherlock's hands took their time exploring, sliding up under the man's shirt and around his body. His touch was adoring and delicate, but full of intent, like a good violinist's always was. He adjusted himself between the man's legs, moaning against him at the hands on his hair, and slowly took John whole. He hollowed out his cheeks, his tongue flat against the underside of his cock as he bobbed his head. 

His own prick was steadily leaking precum in its tight prison, and as badly as he was craving contact, the lack of it and the sheer pleasure he was putting this man through made up for it in full. He'd never admit to it, but John's apologies to God were making his head spin with desire. When he'd warmed up enough, he let John slide down his throat as his nose came to nestle in the hairs at the base. One of his hands found the priest's bollocks, and he massaged earnestly them before letting him slide all the way out of his mouth. He took a second to breathe, his edge imminent. 

"If you pull my hair again, I'm going to cum, father. Careful now." He groaned. He went back to the task at hand, taking John fully into his mouth and picking up the pace again.

John let out a breathy chuckle at the admittance. He was surprised he'd even lasted this long. It'd been eons since he last relieved himself. He took note of the sensitivity of this man's scalp and filed it away, moving his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, moving it with him. He was genuinely impressed with his skill; he wasn't sure if it was just lust, or if this really was the best blowjob he'd ever gotten. 

"Funny that you think I wouldn't want that result," he muttered, and let one of his hands slide back into his curls, waiting for him to come up for a breath before gently, but insistently pushing him all the way down on himself, just by his curls. 

"Can't really make a mess in here, can we? Contain yourself."

Sherlock was shaking, every exhale ended in a high-pitched moan. And yet, the fact that he wasn't allowed to finish made his whole body tingle. That was a real challenge. 

When he came back up for air again, he growled. "Oh, I'll contain myself, father. But you can cum whenever you want. No mess on your part, I'll swallow it all up. I trust you to care for me later." John's hand on his neck, then back into his curls made his thighs clench. He closed his eyes, digging his nails into John's lower back as he bobbed his head faster, sucked harder, went deeper. His curls were heavy with sweat. He was breathing heavier and heavier, his hands finding no purchase in holding onto John's thighs, the moans trapped in the back of his throat reverberating up the priest's prick. 

John barely could hold on with how skilled Sherlock was, and how devoted to giving him pleasure he seemed. He held onto his curls with a tight grip and moved his hips in time with his mouth, his head tilted back against the seat. 

"Oh, God," He moaned shakily, feeling himself reaching the edge, not able to resist anymore. He urged Sherlock's head down, this time with both hands in his hair, firmly buried in his wet, warm mouth as he released. 

He couldn't think of anything except pleasure, except for dark hair and rosy lips and pale, flushed skin. As advertised, Sherlock swallowed up impeccably, closing his eyes tightly to will away his own climax as his head was grabbed and shoved. He kept sucking the priest off to help him override his orgasm, his shaky hands rubbing up and down John's thighs. Once he felt John's hips relax, he let the man slide out of his mouth. 

He was panting, shaking all over from his own unresolved erection. He couldn't remember being this hard in his entire life. He delicately pulled up the priest's clothes, gently buckling up his trousers, and fixing his robes over them before he carefully rose to his feet, holding his crotch in one hand. He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss on John's lips. 

"Was it satisfying enough, father? Have I done you a good service?"

"Very good. Very, very, very good." John answered honestly, reaching out and holding onto Sherlock's collar when he tried to pull away. He kept him in place and looked up into his eyes, his entire body still tingling. He felt so blissful and relaxed, he wasn't ready to let him saunter off. 

Sherlock smirked weakly, pecking John's lips as he grabbed his wrist to push his hand off. John let go, but as the younger began to pull away, the priest rose from his seat and grabbed him by the hips, pushing him back against the creaky wall of the confessional. Mess or not be damned. His robes felt heavy and his legs were a bit shaky, but he felt confident enough to push one of his thighs in between Sherlock's, pressing their bodies together and going for his neck with a few quick kisses.

As soon as he was pressed up against the wall of the confessional, the man's thigh between his own and up against his hard cock, Sherlock released. The pool of hot pleasure in his stomach burst and reached every last corner of his body, making his legs give out and his arms wrap around John's neck. He was left speechless, eyes closed tightly as he panted against the priest's neck. He held tightly onto John, letting one of his hands slide into his own pants to adjust his recently spent cock. He'd made a proper mess of himself. 

"Oh, God... Oh, God, father..." He groaned, looking up at John for a second before pressing a soft, tender kiss on his lips. 

John paused for a second. Now that his mind was beginning to clear, he felt a lot more aware of his predicament. Still, he didn't pull away, reciprocating his kiss sweetly. He offered him the support he needed, holding his hips flush against his own. He wanted to see more of his body, but this wasn't the place.

"So, what now, little genius?" He inquired with a breathy chuckle, "You managed to strip away my priestly training during one confessional."

Sherlock grinned a bit into the kiss, pulling back enough to look the man in the eye at his comment. “Effortlessly, I might add.” 

“Now I leave you to question your choices, motivations, and priorities, father.” The young detective cleared his throat and stood a little straighter as John let go of him, fixing his clothes. He pulled his scarf out of his pocket and wrapped it around his neck. 

“You live here or around here. What time does service normally end for the day? Will a nun come chase me off with a rolling pin if I come at night? I have no clue what you lot are up to in here, but I do know I want to see you again.” 

John stepped back. Christ. What was he doing? Of course he wanted to see him again. But he'd disappointed himself with his lack of strength against temptation. 

"I live here, yes. Father Roth will be leading the next few services, since I'll have to cleanse myself." It sounded a bit rude, but it was true. He believed he needed some time in solitude to make peace with what had happened. 

Sherlock pocketed his hands and looked down at John. He wasn’t an empathetic man. Not naturally. And yet, he felt some of the priest’s remorse and inner conflict. With it, some guilt. 

“Mh, my dad will blame that one on me. He enjoys your sermons immensely. Father Roth’s, not so much.” He sighed quietly. The smallest smirk tugged at the side of his mouth. “That makes two of us, father. I have some cleansing to do as soon as I get home.” He could barely see John now, the dim moonlight seeping weakly into the confessional. 

"As for the nuns... We don't have many sisters here, but the other clergy takes notice when we change our routines. I have an office here, I could..." John bit his lower lip, glancing around, even if he knew they were alone. "We could set up some one-on-one spiritual counseling sessions. They don't usually pay attention to that, it's private. I think we both could gain from some guidance."

Sherlock's eyes lit up at John’s idea. “Father, that would be a very satisfactory arrangement indeed."

A silence.

"Will you ever stop cleansing and repenting if you see me again? Will you ever lead service again?” 

"Perhaps... Perhaps not." John sighed, looking away, to the unoccupied chair beside them. He fidgeted with his clerical collar, pulling it in and out of place. "I can't promise that future visits will be as.... Satisfying. But I'd like to get to know you more." Being so honest brought a flush to his cheeks again, like he was a teenager. He did need time to think, and a cleansing would give him a great excuse. 

"Give me a week." 

Sherlock watched John attentively. He wanted to touch his face, kiss him again, but he held it. He was so used to just taking what he wanted, and doing what he wanted without thinking twice on it or asking anyone. It was alien to meet a man willing to give up real chemistry for personal principles. 

“Fair enough. Likewise, I wouldn’t like to miss out on knowing you.” He whispered. He sighed, elegantly stepping out of the confessional. 

“I’ll be here next Sunday, father. Do take care.” 


	2. Chapter 2

John watched the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes walk down the aisle between the benches and out the front door. He let out a heavy sigh once the footsteps had faded, and dropped his head into his hands. That little slip of his had been immeasurably inappropriate. He couldn't even look at the figure of Christ on the cross hanging behind the altar as he walked past it to the living quarters.

Surely, such a young, handsome man would get bored. Right? Smart people get bored easily. John had a full week to get his head in order, and perhaps, he wouldn't be the one making the decision at all. The fickle nature of the detective's proclivities seemed to dictate him getting bored and forgetting about the priest as the most likely outcome. It wouldn't be pleasant if he did, John knew, but it would be easier. Then he could return to his simple, useful life.

\--

Sherlock walked home with an unforgiving blush on his cheeks. After getting to 221B and having a brief shower, he headed to 221A to share his little vignette with John Watson with Mrs. Hudson. The landlady almost didn't let him in, arguing it was too late to be receiving visitors. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and said it was barely past tea time, and that he had a wonderful and scandalous story he wanted to tell. With her interest peaked, the old woman let him in.

Sherlock ended up staying until well past midnight. She was the only person he trusted to confide in, and she never disappointed with her advice.

"Thank you for the tea, Hudders. And the talk. I'll keep you posted."

He kissed the grinning woman on the cheek, and headed up to bed.

The young detective got roped into a very complicated case the following morning, and forced to forget about Father Watson for the week. What Lestrade had been writing off as an increase in muggings turned out to be related to two homicides that had happened the month before. It wasn't until the weekend that they managed to get the suspect behind bars. And Sherlock got to take home a pulsating black eye and a busted lip from what Mycroft so eloquently referred to as "dreaded legwork."

Sunday came, and he spent that morning sorting the last bit of paperwork with Lestrade. Then, he went home and collapsed on his bed for a couple of hours. He woke up with a jolt, and had a long shower and grooming session to make himself look presentable.

\--

In the other end of London, it had been a long week for John.

A week of praying, fasting, prostrating. The brothers hadn't given him much trouble about it - they knew he was somewhat of a tortured soul after the war, and they had a lot of pity for him. They were mostly all softer men, who were gently led into the clergy, as opposed to how John felt he was flung into it.

By the time of the Sunday sermon, he was sweating and trembling as he put on his robes. Why, damn it? To be so affected by another man? A part of him was firmly made up that it was a mistake and that it was finished with - Sherlock wouldn't return, and he'd go back to his quiet, simple existance, free of consulting detectives and confessional conjugal visits.

And at first, he felt he was correct. He desperately scanned the crowd for that curly mop of hair, that clever smirk, that sharp coat. It wasn't there. Damn it, it wasn't there. He felt a deep pang of disappointment, and then shook it off and continued on with his sermon.

He was walking towards his office space (which only service leaders were granted) late into the evening, his bible and some paperwork tucked under his arm, when he heard the familar tone of brother Roth giving a scolding to someone. He knew that he had a bit of a temper and he liked to even him out sometimes; he could be overly harsh. As he walked up behind the two men, his heart dropped when he heard that voice - and then saw that silhouette. He had to think quickly; he placed a hand on brother Roth's shoulder from behind.

"Brother Roth, I see you've had the pleasure of meeting my newest apprentice. He's offered to help me with some of my book-keeping - you know I'm a lost cause there." He said gently, with a disarmingly charming smile, his eyes dashing over to meet with Sherlock's.

Sherlock was about to just walk past Father Roth. And then, the man he was looking for appeared. Fucking hell, he looked good in robes. And that kind face. Sherlock’s mouth had gone dry again, his stomach filled with butterflies as he met John's eyes.

Father Roth turned to look at John, exasperated. “This time on a Sunday, Brother Watson? Very rude of him to just waltz into our living quarters, and that eye is ghastly. God does not condone violence, young man.” He sputtered, adjusting his spectacles.

Sherlock gave a meek nod of his head after flashing John a quick smirk, and he moved to stand at Father Watson’s side. “I’m in dire need of guidance, Father Roth. And I’m good with book-keeping. I’m humbled to have found a patient spiritual guide like Father Watson.”

John didn't hesitate, and just clasped his hands together in front of him with a smile. Internally, he was queueing up his interrogation about how he'd gotten so roughed up, but now was not the time. "Now, Brother Roth, you know lads these days. I assure you that Mr..." He hesitated heavily on giving Sherlocks real surname. On one hand, he knew that the Holmes family often attended their sermons without Sherlock present, but the Holmes' boys were well known around the town. But then again he knew Brother Roth was a worrywart, and likely to bring it to the elder Holmes' that his younger son was regularly visiting a clergyman, though perhaps that wouldnt be such a bad thing.

"I can attest to Mr. Holmes' fondness for rugby." He finished simply. Sherlock looked down to hide the smile involuntarily spreading on his face and the scoff pushing at the back of his throat.

Brother Roth had a quizzical look on his face, but John simply took Sherlock by the upper arm and began to guide him in the direction of his office before he could formulate a grouchy response. "Now, if you don't mind, brother, we haven't much time left in the evening for work to be done. God be with you, I'll see you during morning prayer."

Brother Roth was a few decades older than John, and certainly a lot slower in his response time. By when he had stopped stammering and was able to reply, the other priest was walking away with the younger man in tow. “And with you.” He called, then waving a hand and trudging back to his office.

Sherlock followed obediently, walking into John’s office after he’d opened the door. The young detective stood by one of the chairs, and waited until John shut the door before he spoke up.

“Close call.” He undid his scarf, and slid out of his long coat, leaving both items on the hanger. Sherlock sat on the chair across from John’s, looking up at the priest. “You look good, father. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Sorry I didn’t make service this morning, I was wrapping up a case.” He gestured his face, then shrugged a bit. “Collateral damage. Some people don’t quite like being arrested. How was your week, then?”

John huffed a deep sigh of relief once he fell back into his chair. He didn't like lying to his colleagues, it felt very wrong. Then again, this whole situation was technically wrong. He couldn't tell him the truth - sorry, Brother Roth, this is the lad that sucked me off in the confessional las Sunday and now he's here for round two in the office!

The priest leaned forward and folded his hands together on the desk in front of him. His bible and paper work were placed haphazardly across it, a physical manifestation of his nerves. He cleared his throat. He did admire Sherlock's manners. His posh upbringing showed through his actions, and it was attractive. "You look good. Despite the, er-" He made a vague motion to his face for emphasis. "You didn't miss much at the service. Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes I recycle old sermons when I'm not feeling inspired. Nobody ever notices." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It wasn't very long, but it was a force of habit. He certainly hadn't felt any divine inspirations this week.

“That’s a good secret. Seems logical to me. One cannot expect to be inspired every single week.” Sherlock nodded.

John mirrored the gesture. "It's been a week. I fasted, repented, prayed, abstained from self-pleasure. You know, sans confessing to another priest, I've done everything necessary to cleanse myself and be sin-free again. I suppose you're here to muck that up, eh?"

Sherlock crossed his legs, leaning back on his chair as he looked at John. He could confidently say, at this point, that John was the most interesting person he’d ever met. He was terribly intrigued by him. And attracted to him, in plenty of ways. He took a deep breath, adjusting the sleeves of his fitted navy blue shirt above his elbows, and undoing just one more button at the front of it.

“Only with your blessing, father.” He replied gently, smiling a bit. He thought back on all John had done since their meeting, and what he’d done. Hell, he’d wanked to the thought of him every time he showered. “I won’t tell you how badly I want you to bend me over this very desk. I hope I’m not here to ruin your life, father. Wouldn’t be my intention. Priests are allowed to have sex, if memory serves.”

With that, John relaxed a bit, even chuckled a little. He didn't want to show any arousal, although his eyes followed Sherlock's body language like his life depended on it. So open, so inviting - literally, inviting him over there. "I like to think that I have more self control than I probably do. I think... that the priesthood was not as satisfying as I thought it was." He admitted, casting his gaze down to the desk, at his bible. "I thought I was fully fulfilled, and ready to spend the rest of my life here. But, I think it's just easy. That's why I like it. You know my past; I thought I was finished with excitement. But then..." He left his sentence hanging explicitly, knowing Sherlock was clever enough to fill in the blanks. He looked back up at him, watching him like a cat, his eyes sweeping down his fitted shirt, his shoulders, his neck...

"Technically, by the way. If we were married, and you were a woman, and if we'd have gotten married before I took my vows. Then, absolutely, it would be fine. Maybe not bent over this desk, but y'know, that's just details." He added.

The detective uncrossed his legs, resting his hands on the arms of his chair. His eyes followed John's, and stared at the time-worn Bible across him for a bit. From his perspective, the book was upside-down. Crudely ironic, he thought to himself. “I think you’re an extraordinary man. I don’t know how much weight my judgement holds in your head, and I’m supposed to read people like open books. You’re a doctor, top of your class, troubled upbringing, dead mother, alcoholic father, most likely. Found some rectification in the army, while your sibling fell deeper into your father's ways. Then you came back wounded, I can tell you have impaired mobility in that left shoulder. Found purpose in the church. Not that you ever were overly orthodox to begin with, but this seemed a good place to give back and be needed. Then you met me.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. His deductions were normally spit-fire, but he felt like taking his time with this man. “I think you have a kind of intelligence that’s not very ubiquitous. And I can believe the church has become lacklustre to someone like you.” He looked up at John after scanning the desk one more time. “You’ve got me hooked, father. And in reply to that last comment, I call boring on the tradition of clerical continence.”

John couldn't help the flinch that came along with the analysis, as true as it was. He reflexively brought a hand up to his left shoulder. He was flattered, embarrassed, confused, and conflicted. Mostly, he was impressed. He'd heard stories of the Holmes' boys, but he never imagined someone speaking to him like this, like he'd known him all his life, just from some analyzing and a brief background check. His eyes dropped to his lips as he spoke, too flustered to make eye contact anymore. He delayed his response. He didn't have anything witty or snap-back to say. He stood up, slowly pacing around to stand behind Sherlock's chair. He draped his arms over the younger man's shoulders, and bent down, laying his cheek against the top of his head. It was warm. Smelled nice, he could tell he had a thorough shower - just like a bloke before a date, he thought wryly. Was this a date? "You're mostly right, which you know." he muttered into the mess of curls, "I think you grew up right prim and posh, too smart for your own good. You didn't care about having an easy or spoiled life, you just wanted something to challenge you. You get bored easily, because you think nobody can keep up with you, so you live in the company of drugs when you can't take it anymore. You're a bit of a prick, though."

One of the detective's hands delicately found one of John’s, and he intertwined their fingers. The brief deduction was right on the money. “Someone can keep up, apparently.” He tilted his head, and looked up to find John’s eyes. “And proudly so, thank you. Most people are pricks, I’m just more upfront about it.” He reached up, free hand grabbing the back of John’s neck and bringing him just a few inches closer. 

“I don’t want to tell you how to live your life. Or who to love. This works for me, father. This dynamic. Being sinful in secret like the rest of the world. Coming here for counselling. Even if you don’t touch me. Your company is enough.” He whispered, feeling his cheeks warming up and his lips tingling. 

“Even if it is only until you ultimately decide you love God better. Or how this whole thing makes you feel useful.” He took a deep breath, threading his hand up into John’s hair. 

John squeezed his fingers, the contrasting textures of their skin giving him a little thrill, just happy to be touching him. It felt amazing to be wanted, physically, or just for company. It felt right. 

Members of his church - exclusively ladies, usually older - had come onto him before, and it was incredibly easy to gently let them down. He didn't want to do that with Sherlock. He wanted him to stay, he wanted to watch over him until his injuries healed, he wanted to fall asleep next to him and fuss over him. He obliged the man, closing the small gap between their lips, his free hand moving down the space between his shirt and the skin of his chest. He really did have the body of a dancer, and it was foreign and delightful to John. When he pulled away, he quietly gazed down at him for a few moments. 

"Just that little kiss could get me thrown out of the priesthood." He whispered, before closing his eyes and going in for another.

Sherlock kissed softly at first, taking him in, memorising the feeling of John’s lips against his own. It sent shivers up his spine. He was still caught off guard by the effect this man had on him, always, invariably strong. He felt his strong hand reaching to touch his chest, and his nipples rose like bread, a small sound caught at the back of his throat. 

“No one will know, father. That’s my promise to you.” He undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt as he kissed John, while his other hand tugged lightly at the priest’s hair. He kissed deeper, parting his lips to let him in, guiding John’s hand through the marble expanse that was the skin on his trunk.

John hummed against his lips, taking his time to explore him with his hand and his mouth. He was so warm, so inviting. A little incubus here to tempt him and he was suddenly, passionately ready to give in. He pulled away sharply after a couple more moments, and withdrew to walk to the office door. 

At his sudden absence, Sherlock felt like he’d been ripped out of the water. He was left rather short of breath on the chair, his eyes following the priest’s every move. John twisted the lock with a click while removing his caplet with his other hand, tossing it onto the floor instead of hanging it up with Sherlock's clothes. He figured it wasn't the only piece of clothing he was going to defame that night. He was left with his robe on, white collar flairing against the black, neatly pressed fabric - as a military man, he understood uniforms. 

"You said something about my desk, didn't you?"

Sherlock let out a breathy moan at the sight of him, stern, left in those glorious robes. He stood up, towering over John and yet looking so much smaller. His eyes were hungry, his mouth was agape, and his hands cupped the man’s face, looking down at him. “I did. This very desk.” He growled, giving the man a hard, determined kiss before turning to face the sturdy piece of furniture. He brought John’s arms around him, guiding his hands through his bare chest, while he slotted his arse into the man’s hips. He let out a hard breath at the contact, holding himself up with one of his hands on the desk. 

“Oh, father...”

John was happy to hold Sherlock against his desk, feeling his body, smaller and delicate, trapped underneath him. His skin seemed too flawless to be true, but that was, perhaps, just the lust filling his head and altering his perception. He had been plenty at attention - for a while - and was eager to grind his hips into Sherlock's. God, it'd been years since he'd been with a man like this, and even then, it wasn't like this. Back then it was so fumbly, so awkward and desperate. He felt completely in control and also at Sherlock's any whim at once. He brought his hands down, ripping his shirt out of its tuck into his trousers. His left hand grabbed his belt buckle, and he reached over with his right to shove his bible off his desk and onto the floor. His eyes kept falling on it and giving him a pang of guilt.

At the grinding, a string of high-pitched gasps fell from Sherlock's lips, burying his face into the priest’s neck to muffle some of them. He'd let his head fall back on John’s shoulder, enjoying the veteran’s strong body against his own. What John lacked in height, compared to himself anyway, he certainly made up for in presence and dominance and strength.

The veteran's left hand grabbed his belt buckle, and he reached over with his right to shove his bible off his desk and onto the floor. His eyes kept falling on it and giving him a pang of guilt.

John sat up and pulled Sherlock's shirt completely off, throwing it over his chair and putting his hand flat on his back, pressing the man's chest down against the desk firmly, not giving him any wriggle room. He wanted him to know he hadn't grown any weaker since the army. "You could call me John, you know. But I think you're getting a lot out of this whole 'father' thing." 

Sherlock was in the middle of sucking in a breath to squeeze in some snippy remark about the Bible now being on the floor, when he was pushed down onto the desk. A broken moan slipped from him, and his arms stretched to hold onto the opposite edge of the desk. He spread his legs and arched his back, pushing back against John with whatever amount of wiggle room he had left. “I’m - I’m certainly getting something from calling you father, father. You can call me Sherlock, then. Haven’t heard you yet.” He groaned. “I wonder what I can call you. Captain? General? Doctor? Father? John?” 

"Sherlock." John tested the name gently; it felt foreign in his mouth. Sherlock felt a rush of blood to his cock as he heard his name in that sweet voice. 

John slid his hand down the slope of his back, smooth and pretty, and curled his fingers around the man's belt, giving it a tug; pulling him further against him. Anything to elicit one of those breathy noises out of him. On cue, Sherlock gasped. The priest's heart was completely racing, but his hands, typically constantly plagued by tremors, were for once, fully still. He could hear his pulse in his ears, and his face felt hot as the sun, but he spoke firmly, with intention. 

'John' felt the most intimate out of those names; Father the most sinful, and Captain the silliest. "Whatever you fancy. I am partial to my own name, but it is a bit... romantic, isn't it?" He chuckled, and in a fluid motion he grabbed onto Sherlock's writhing hips, and flipped him over to face him, and then hoisted him up to sit on the desk in front of them. He kept his hands on the mans waist, looking up into his eyes, delighting in how excitable he was. 

"Undress me."

Sherlock had closed his eyes, turning his head so he could press his forehead down on the cool oak beneath him. He focused on the flood of stimuli, storing every last bit of it away in his Mind Palace for posterior reminiscing. He could feel his own hot breath bouncing off the varnished surface as he let out a throaty moan at being pressed on harder. He’d had his fair share of sexual encounters, but none of them had ever had even a semblance of intimacy. He was normally involved with rougher men, fucked, then ignored, and he’d convinced himself that he liked that detached way of going about it. Until he’d met John. His heart wasn’t racing, he wasn’t trying to break a world record on how fast he could get someone off, the priest’s touch was purposeful. He felt pure, unadulterated lust, and ease in his arms. 

He was pliant and responsive at John’s ministrations, now sat on the desk and looking down at the other. Before he said another word, he met John’s lips in a slow, deep kiss, locking his ankles at the small of his back. 

“I like romantic, somehow makes this less sinful. John...” He grinned a bit against the man’s lips, kissing down his jaw to his neck as his fingers delicately undid the buttons at the front of his uniform.

John breathed a shaky breath. Sherlock seemed so thoughtful, and so intentional with each movement. Nothing seemed impulsive with him; it led John to believe that lots of thoughts were bouncing around behind those cool, pretty eyes. He returned the kiss fervently, bringing his hands up to tangle in Sherlocks curls as he began to work open his buttons. Each kiss was still as exciting as the one before for him. 

"We're a bit past that, aren't we?" He chuckled nervously. "I'm not exactly being a picture of piety right now. Although there are levels to sinfulness..."

Sherlock’s hands reached the priest’s waistband, and he delicately pulled it off. He undid the buttons down by John’s groin, and gently pushed the robes over the man’s shoulders, letting them fall. The younger was silent and deliberate, his hands grabbing the bottom hem of John’s vest and pulling it over the man’s head. Only then, in full view of the priest’s chest, did Sherlock meet his lips again for a kiss. When he pulled back, he let his eyes follow his hands as he touched the man’s torso, his lips lightly kissing around the entry wound scar on his left shoulder. He pulled back again to look at John, pulling him closer to press their chests together. 

“Depends on who you ask. To me, you’re a prayer in perfect piety.”


End file.
